


A bit of the old slap and tickle

by Vae



Series: kink bingo fills [4]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is horribly, uncontrollably, ridiculously, terrifyingly ticklish, and it's something he's managed to keep secret for most of his life. Usually by lying, because if he tells people that he's not ticklish, they lose all interest in trying to tickle him.</p><p>Harry Styles is not one of those people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A bit of the old slap and tickle

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks to my dearest rivers_bend for beta (all remaining mistakes remain my own), and to her and lokte and others who watched my inevitable helpless slide towards writing fic for these boys.
> 
> This is Real Person Fiction, and not intended as a true representation of the characters, actions, or relationships of the people named herein.

"I reckon," Harry says slowly, eyes dark and fixed intently on Nick's face in a way that gives Nick microseconds of warning that what Harry's about to say is either going to be brilliant or fucking terrifying, "I reckon you're ticklish."

Terrifying it is, then.

The thing is, Nick thought he was used to people with no idea of personal space. Usually he's one of them, he likes touching people, he fucking loves that his friends are entirely comfortable climbing all over each other and being demonstrably affectionate in public and private with no apparent consideration for the difference between them. So sometimes he squirms away, that's no big deal. Sometimes everyone squirms away, or so he'd thought. That had been before he'd met One Direction and Harry Styles and been exuberantly adopted by them. There are still days that he isn't entirely sure that they're not all having it away with each other backstage at every gig, and that he's entirely imagining that Harry treats him any differently to his bandmates.

Then Harry goes and says something like that and Nick realises that he's taken too long to respond if he wants to have any chance of passing off his response as entirely casual or believable. It's not going to stop him trying.

"Excuse you," he says, drawing himself up with every scrap of outraged dignity he can summon. (It's not much. He always finds it hard to take himself seriously when he's being melodramatic, so it's no wonder that no one else does.) "I am not. I am _really_ not."

Harry's serious face splits into a wide, utterly guileless grin. "Thought so."

Somehow, Nick suspects that it's not the last time he's going to hear about it.

~~~

It's not that Nick's against tickling on principle. It's not that he doesn't like tickling, really. Tickling, as a thing, is kind of amazing. It's just a thing that he usually prefers to give than to receive, to be the tickler, as it might be, instead of the ticklee. He's seen the way that most people react to being tickled, the duck and laugh and swerve and retaliation, sometimes giggles, but it never seems to last for long. It's over in a few seconds, the acknowledgment of tickling, the reaction, then people just somehow pick up and go on, and that's cool. Nearly every group hug he's ever been involved in (and there have been plenty of them over the years, God, he loves hugs) has ended up breaking up because someone's gone for someone else's side with fingers and it's turned into a laughing tangled mess of people on the floor that it's easy for him to escape from before anyone notices that he hasn't been one of the tickle-victims. Sometimes he's a tickle-perpetrator, but that's it, and never for long.

Because, of course, Harry bloody Styles is right. Nick is ticklish.

Nick is horribly, uncontrollably, ridiculously, terrifyingly ticklish, and it's something he's managed to keep secret for most of his life. Usually by lying, because if he tells people that he's not ticklish, they lose all interest in trying to tickle him.

Harry Styles is not one of those people.

It's been almost long enough for Nick to forget about Harry's accusation. He's been doing his best to act normally around Harry, not shying away from physical contact, not tensing up, laughing and leaning in when Harry slings an arm around his shoulders or sprawls out on his sofa and wriggles until he's worked his head into Nick's lap for his hair to be petted. Nick's seen Harry do similar things a thousand times with the lads, which is just one of the reasons that he's so determinedly not making assumptions about it. It's just how Harry is.

And if Harry smells abso-bloody-lutely fantastic, or if the heat of Harry's long body pressed against Nick's back gives Nick the kind of desperately urgent, uncontrollable and instant erection that he thought he'd left in high school, well, that's just how things are, and there's no need for Harry to know about it.

Anyway, he's getting back to being genuinely relaxed around Harry when, one afternoon in Nick's flat, Harry comes up behind him and affectionately wraps around him. Nick sternly (and silently, because he's not that crazy, honest) tells his cock to behave, and leans back with a grin, dropping his shoulder enough for Harry to rest his head on it. Harry kisses his cheek in appreciation, links his hands over Nick's stomach, and hums thoughtfully.

The hum's the only warning that Nick gets (and that he's too unguarded to interpret as a warning) before Harry curls his fingers and tickles Nick's stomach. Over Nick's t-shirt, thank God, but the fabric's not thick enough to be any kind of defense.

Nick yelps an embarrassingly high-pitched sound and fails to fight the instinct that drives his elbows back as he curls up, bent over his knees to protect his stomach, arms clamped to his sides, breathless and tense. Behind him, Harry gives an "oof" and lets go, warmth of his body disappearing suddenly.

When Nick manages to uncurl and turn around to check on Harry, Harry's still sprawled on his floor, eyes wide, studying him with the kind of calculating expression that, if Nick had any sense, should send him running out the door. Where Harry's concerned, though, Nick's never had any kind of sense, and definitely not one of self-preservation. 

He extends a cautious hand to help Harry up from the floor, brushing him off and generally checking that he hasn't broken one of the world's most bankable popstars. "Sorry, mate, are you okay? Didn't mean to knock you down there."

Harry nods, not speaking, and Nick has a moment of gut-churning horror that he's destroyed Harry's voice entirely before Harry says, even more husky than usual, "So I was right, then."

Relief wars with growing dread. "About?" Nick asks warily, backing up towards his sofa.

"You." Harry grins, sticks both hands in his jean pockets (much to Nick's relief), and saunters forwards for every step Nick takes back, not letting Nick open up any kind of safety gap between them. "Being ticklish."

"And?" Another step, and the back of Nick's legs collide with the front of his sofa. He sits down suddenly, unexpectedly, and doesn't even pretend to try to relax. Harry's got secret knowledge as a hostage, and Nick's not sure what he's going to do with it.

"And..." If possible, Harry's grin widens, his eyes bright, and he drops down on top of Nick, straddling his lap, one knee either side of Nick's hips, sinking into the sofa cushions. "You like it."

Nick presses his elbows against his sides, hands folded over his stomach, primly protective. There are times when Harry's coltishly clumsy, not quite aware of the length of his limbs, a painful reminder of his youth, but this isn't one of those times. This is one of the times when Harry's smoothly in control of himself, deliberate as he reaches past Nick to take hold of the back of the sofa, leaning in towards him, entirely focused in on Nick.

It's intoxicating, more than a little bit scary, and a lot arousing. Nick desperately, hopelessly wills his cock not to react, because with Harry where he is, there's no way at all he'd miss it. "I don't," he protests weakly. "Okay, so, yeah, I'm ticklish, but I don't... it's horrid."

Harry's lips twitch, but it doesn't look like amusement. It looks more like he's pleased, and Nick can't figure that out at all. "Let me," he says softly, voice dropping even lower. "I want to."

"Want to what?" Nick's voice is climbing higher in pitch as Harry's drops, his last word coming out closer to a squawk. "Look, Harold, come on, I mean, a joke's a joke. Just let it go, yeah, there's a good lad."

"Not a joke." Harry shakes his head and leans in closer, and for one stomach-clenching moment Nick thinks he's about to get kissed. He's not had time to work out whether that would be wonderful or horrific before Harry bypasses his lips, going straight past to brush lips against his ear instead. "You trust me, don't you?"

Nick closes his eyes and swallows, trying to focus on almost anything except the warmth of Harry's breath against his ear and whether that had actually been a kiss or just accidental contact. His only other options seem to be Harry's forearms against his shoulders, Harry's thighs against his own, the spice of Harry's cologne rising from his neck, so close... and none of those are good things to focus on. "It's not about trust. Come on, this is a spectacularly bad idea. Just get up and forget about it."

"I just want to tickle you." Harry sounds almost innocent enough to be convincing - would be convincing if Nick had never met him before. "How's that a bad idea?"

Apart from the terror of exactly how vulnerable it makes him, tickling isn't a bad idea. At least, not if it's limited, but Nick really doesn't trust that it would stay as just tickling. Or just Harry. "Look, first you do it, then the rest of the lads are at it, then Finchy starts it up and something gets broken in the studio and I lose my job and I've got no money and then I'm homeless and I'm out on the street..."

"Nick," Harry says, still close enough to Nick's ear that the sound of his voice almost tickles, curls the promise of a shiver along Nick's spine, ready to release at the slightest possible trigger. "Seriously. Just me. Just tickling. Just now. No one else. I won't let them."

He sounds serious enough about it that Nick's startled into opening his eyes, even if that doesn't gain him anything because he can't see Harry's face. There's nowhere to lean back, either, because the sofa's right there stopping him. "You won't _let_ them?"

Harry sits back far enough to look at Nick, and he looks as serious as he sounds. "I won't let them," he repeated steadily. "I'm not gonna tell them, and I'll keep them off you."

Even though there are four of them to Harry's one - more if you add in friends, girlfriends, and anyone else who might think it's hilarious to reduce Nick to a state of complete helplessness - Nick can feel himself weakening in the face of Harry's confidence. "Why?"

"Because I want it." Harry shrugs, then flashes a smile so bright Nick almost closes his eyes again. "And tickling's fun. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could kick you in the face," Nick points out. "No, seriously, I might." His reaction to being tickled is instinctive, uncontrolled violence, anything to make it stop, and if it doesn't, if he loses that much control... Well, there are a lot of things that he's been relying on his self-control to keep from doing to young Harry. Emphasis on the young, just as a reminder to himself.

"But you won't," Harry says, with a breathtaking level of confidence, then delivers the killer blow, "I trust you."

"Oh, you evil little bastard." Nick does close his eyes at that, sighing as he lets his head drop back against the sofa cushions. There's no way Harry can know exactly how much that's his weak point - at least, he hopes there's no way Harry can know that. That and how much he wonders, sometimes, what it might be like, being able to trust someone enough to completely lose control in front of them, let it all totally break down and not automatically try to avoid being tickled. "God. Okay, fine. _Fine_ , if it means that much to you."

"Yay," Harry cheers, lets go of the back of the sofa, and does a little dance without moving off Nick's thighs. It's simultaneously the least erotic lapdance Nick has ever had and the hottest thing he's ever seen, Harry completely unselfconsciously lifting his arms and wiggling his bum, his t-shirt rising to reveal a strip of skin that Nick has to remind himself - again - not to touch.

Somewhere along the line, Nick's managed to get screwed up enough that apparently the love of his fucking life is a dorky eighteen year old popstar who wants to tickle him. Karma really, really hates him.

Harry doesn't drop his arms; instead he folds them behind his head, giving Nick so many possible targets if Harry was going to be the ticklee instead of the tickler. Armpits, sides, belly, all exposed completely without fear and topped with a sunny smile that - God help him - looks like it's got more than a hint of fondness in it. "So," Harry says brightly. "Where are you ticklish?"

Nick groans. He'd lift an arm to cover his eyes to stop himself from looking at Harry or Harry from seeing his face if that wouldn't mean exposing his own armpit and side. "Everywhere. Like, all the classic places, you know? And then all the rest. Honestly, I think everything except my knob's ticklish."

Possibly even that, under the right circumstances, but Nick is so not inviting Harry to tickle his bits.

"Sick," Harry says happily, drawing the vowel out and lighting up like Nick's just told him that tomorrow's Christmas and his birthday all at once. "So if I..."

He reaches out and lightly trails his fingers down the side of Nick's neck, down to the neckline of his t-shirt until the fabric pulls across. It definitely tickles - Nick's nerves come to life like they've just been waiting for Harry's touch, and he twitches violently, unable to stop himself. "Fuck."

"Oh, yeah," Harry murmurs, somewhere between fascinated and delighted, and repeats the touch even lighter. 

Nick's skin feels like it wants to twitch all on its own, not quite crawling but not quite comfortable, unease rippling through him and breaking out in a shiver. He tightens his hands where they're linked over his stomach, working not to push Harry away. It's an effort. He wants to grab Harry's wrist and stop the touch almost as much as he wants more of it. "Harry..."

Harry shushes him absently, face intent. "Move your arms, I can't get to you."

"Well, yeah, that's kind of the _point_ ," Nick retorts, taking a deeper breath to try to get rid of the unsettled feeling. There's nothing to be scared of. It's just tickling. And it's _Harry_. Harry's not going to hurt him.

"I can't tickle you if I can't get to you," Harry says firmly, takes hold of Nick's wrists, and tugs.

Nick doesn't make him work for it. He lets Harry move his hands, his arms, taking a quick, shallow breath as his stomach's exposed, feeling colder without his hands resting over it. "God. Why am I doing this?"

Harry holds onto Nick's wrists for a moment, head tilted, frowning slightly in concentration, then picks them up, stretching Nick's arms out to the sides and pressing his hands against the back of the sofa. The stretch brings him in close to Nick again, bodies close enough to feel the heat of Harry's skin across the space and two thin t-shirts, and Nick closes his eyes again, biting his lower lip and giving up on trying to control his cock. if Harry's got a problem with it, he can move away.

"Because it's fun," Harry says, answering a question that Nick's almost forgotten asking and probably meant to be rhetorical anyway, and gives Nick a sweet smile that turns wicked when he looks down at Nick. "Keep your hands there and try not to punch me, yeah?"

Nick's fully dressed and can't remember ever having felt more exposed in his _life_. "Hazza, I'm really not so sure about this..."

Letting go of Nick's wrists, Harry puts his hands on Nick's shoulders instead. It's a good touch, a firm touch, a nowhere-near-tickling touch. "Just you and me, yeah? If you want me to stop, you just say stop. I'll stop."

Once Harry actually gets started on the tickling, Nick's probably not going to be able to draw breath enough to say anything, never mind stop, but that doesn't stop it being stupidly reassuring to hear it. Nick takes a deep breath, grips the sofa cushions, and nods. "Alright, then."

"Sweet," Harry says, darts in, and kisses Nick on the lips. It's hard and quick, so fast and unexpected that Nick's more gaping in shock than being able to respond in any way at all, and then he can't respond because Harry was serious about tickling him. Is serious, God, light touch rapidly firming until he's digging his fingers into Nick's sides and not even the weight of Harry on his thighs is enough to stop Nick from squirming.

He's breathless, overwhelmed, digging his fingers into the cushions as if that's going to be enough to remind himself to hold on, and the first giggles turn into more, high pitched and helpless as giddiness rises. Harry's fingers moving over his stomach bring Nick's knees up in an instinctive response he can't suppress, which just slides Harry down and hard up against him.

Key word there being _hard_ , because apparently Nick's not the only one and that's enough to startle Nick out of giggles for a moment to stare at Harry, breathless and shocked. (That and the fact that Harry pressed against his torso means that Harry can't keep tickling him, and the respite definitely helps with things like breathing.) "Why, Mr. Styles, are you trying to tell me something?"

Harry rolls his eyes, pulls his hands out from between them, and grinds his hips down hard against Nick in a way that Nick's pretty sure makes his eyes cross and every spare bit of blood in his body rush down to his cock. "Are you finally getting it?" Harry asks, something close to exasperated, something close to a growl, and attacks Nick's sides again.

Harry's relentless and determined, but Nick's got a lot of instincts that have built up years of defenses against being tickled. No matter how hard he tries to hold onto the sofa, there comes the twist and writhe of fingers against his skin that breaks conscious control into learned reflexes and his hands go to Harry, because Harry's there and Harry is the source of the torment and God, he can't breathe. He's not even sure if he's pulling Harry closer or pushing him away, does know that the gasps of "pleasepleaseplease" are coming from him because he's never heard Harry's voice pitched that high, does notice when his frantic squirming tips them both off the sofa onto the floor and thank God there's nothing for them to fall on except the rug.

And Harry's still going. His eyes are bright, his face is flushed, and he's grinning like he's the happiest boy in the entire world - happy and evil, that is. Happy, evil and persistent, fingers still moving, somehow even reaching down behind Nick's knees. Nick's giggling so hard he's sobbing with it, eyes streaming, gasping for breath, lightheaded and it feels fucking glorious, everything let go and surrendered to the moment, no control, just the uncontrollable laughter and it's sort of like being high but better, euphoric, desperately fighting to stammer out a barely audible "stop".

Harry stops.

Part of Nick's disappointed by that, and he's still deep enough in the freedom of being tickled to be honest with himself about it. The rest of him's deeply relieved, struggling to draw a deeper breath, laughter still breaking through. When he lifts a hand to wipe the back of it across his eyes, it feels lighter than he expects, harder to control, and he blinks at it a couple of times before giving up and dropping it back to the floor again, concentrating on just breathing. It would probably be easier without Harry draped half along his side, half on top of him, but there's no power on earth or anywhere else that would get him to even try to move Harry away.

"So," he says, when he's gained back enough breath to trust his voice (and even then it's kind of unsteady). "Harry Styles, how long have you been trying to hit on me?"

"Longer than I've been trying to tickle you." Harry's voice is low and warm with amusement, and his smile positively broadcasts satisfaction. "But we can do both of them again. Are you sure your knob's not ticklish?"

Nick takes another deep breath, fails to keep it steady, and lets it break into laughter again. "Evil fucking bastard," he says, wondering when that started to turn him on so much.

"We're gonna have to work on your choice of pet names," Harry says seriously, grins, and stretches up to kiss Nick.

Nick thinks that evil bastard definitely fits, but as long as Harry's kissing him, he can't see a reason to argue his point.

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, I know how old Harry is now. I'm taking my beta's advice on a suitable age for him in this fic given the relationship dynamics set up between Nick and the lads.)


End file.
